


Where There's a Will

by LateStarter58



Series: Bardology [1]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Fantasy, Gen, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 04:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17780432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LateStarter58/pseuds/LateStarter58
Summary: A stressed out working mother is struggling with her Shakespeare course when something mysterious happens.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This story has two parents: my husband Geoff who, years ago, had a brilliant idea for a TV drama series in which famous figures from history are brought back and shown their legacy, and a Facebook friend who posted the speech from Hamlet at just the right moment for it to inspire me. I thank them both profusely. If you are interested, as far as I know the OU course on Shakespeare still exists.

I probably should have noticed sooner, but as usual, I was up to my eyes in it. October: always murder. Work was hell, with impossible deadlines to meet, the kids driving me crazy about Christmas already, and assignments looming.

But even so, when the trousers disappeared from the washing line… I put it down to some petty thief, such things happen around here from time to time. I even blamed the bird food on foxes or squirrels. It wasn’t until I opened the bedroom curtains that Saturday morning and saw the footprints in the dew…

 

But I’m getting ahead of myself. I should really start with the essay on ‘Hamlet’. That was the cause of it, of this whole thing, after all. At least, I think so.

‘So, has anyone done the first assignment yet?’ Haha, very funny. Of course, a few hands went up, as they always did. There were people doing this Open University course who didn’t have kids, jobs, or lives. I wasn’t one of them. Like everyone else, I had received my materials weeks ago, but who has time to read enough ahead to do the first essay this early,for fuck’s sake? I was most of the way to my BA in English Lit., not all that many more points needed, but every time I started a new module it got tougher. Yes, yes, I know it’s supposed to, but life seemed to like to get in the way as well.

‘Don’t worry if you haven’t,’ continued the tutor cheerily, ‘We’ll take a look at some similar assignments from previous years and do some plans, shall we?’

It was all about Shakespeare, this course. ’Text and Performance’. I love him, so I was looking forward to it, all of it, but this was pretty much my busiest time at work. A ‘pinch-point’, my boss liked to call it, and guess who was in the pinch. Thank god it was ‘Hamlet _’_ though. I had already studied it at school, so I wasn’t starting from scratch. Plus I watched that TV version a few years ago – I mean, David Tennant? Who wouldn’t? – so I was familiar with the broad strokes. But the closing date wasn’t that far off and I had read next to nothing, written less. Weekends seemed to shrink. By the time I had done the essentials – cleaning, laundry, shopping – the day had gone or I was so tired I fell asleep on my books.

I’d been there before. Autumn term at College was always mad, every year a little worse than the last. Fewer staff, less time, more students. I probably should have taken a break from my studies, but I daren’t. If I had, I might never start again and I was determined to get my degree even if it killed me. Some weeks it actually felt like life or death. One such Sunday night, Dave tapped me gently on the shoulder: ‘Time for bed, sweetheart.’ I sat up, disorientated for a moment. ‘I need a miracle or I’m going to muck this course up before I’ve even started.’ I said. ‘If only I could just ask him what he meant, it would save me SO much time!’

Now, I should make it clear right away that I don’t actually believe in miracles, or anything ‘supernatural’ at all, so this wasn’t a heartfelt plea or a genuine prayer. Not at all. It was more of a moan, really. A whinge.

Desperation _._

And I am telling you, that’s all I did. No mumbo-jumbo, no voodoo, no casting the runes or animal sacrifices in the garden. No candles, no crystals, no standing in front of a mirror and saying his name three times, no promises to imaginary friends. I can’t explain this rationally, and I like rational explanations as a rule. It still bothers me, but for now I’m just going with the flow.

It was the footprints, like I said, leading from the tiny shed at the bottom of our long, narrow garden to the bird table and back. They had to be fresh. And once again, all the bird food was gone. There was no doubt about it.

Someone was living in our shed.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz has to put her study time on hold to investigate.

**AA306 TMA 001**

**_‘Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as so many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently: for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, the whirlwind of passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O! It offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb-shows and noise: I would have such a fellow whipped for o’er-doing Termagant; it out-herods Herod: pray you, avoid it.’ Hamlet, Act III, Scene II_ **

**How much can we glean from this speech about Shakespeare’s wishes? Are these instructions for his actors? Did he tell them this as a ‘director’? Can this speech be used to inform performances today?**

Nicely vague. Oh for a science course where there are only right or wrong answers! Not only do I have to make my mind up, I have to justify it. For 1500 words.

I needed 60 final points to complete my degree, and browsing my options in January I had spotted this course and decided immediately. If nothing else, it would be a good excuse to watch ‘The Hollow Crown’again. In other words, Hiddleston-ogling without Dave moaning and rolling his eyes. Some hope. But at least I could justify it. Seriously though, I have loved Shakespeare since school. We had a great English Literature teacher who made it come to life for us from day one, so I have never needed persuading. But if I had, well, Tom Hiddleston would have been the man for the job. I was lucky enough to see his Cassio in _Othello_ at the Donmar. Can’t believe that was so long ago now! That was the first thing Jude and I went to together; she and I met at our first OU tutorial and have been mates and study-buddies ever since. Best of all, she loves most of the same things I do, so I always have someone to go to the theatre or the cinema with, or to drag round an exhibition.

We have shared an obsession with Hiddles ever since that night in Covent Garden.  Our partners tolerate it with reasonable good humour, most of the time. So she wasn’t surprised when I told her I was doing this course. But what had been a surprise was the announcement Dave had made to me just a couple of weeks before all this weird stuff started happening.

‘I got you an early Christmas present today,’ he said one evening when we were clearing up after dinner. I looked at him. He liked to surprise me now and then, and even after 15 years of marriage he still made the odd romantic gesture.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Tadaa!’ He produced an envelope from his back pocket. When I opened it I couldn’t believe my eyes. Two tickets for ‘Coriolanus’at the Donmar _,_ front row. Now that’s love. No need to tell you he got an early Christmas present that night too. The performance was a few weeks away, in late November. The play wasn’t one I would be studying, but that didn’t matter. The principles would apply, and anyway, HIDDLES! Before that, I had this bloody essay to write and less and less time.

The idea was to make a start, nice and early, before everyone else got up. Get a few things down on paper, that always helps me think. Even just an outline plan or a mind map. _But now I am going to have to go and check this out. The mystery of the footprints in the dew, I mean. Asylum-seeker? Junkie? Who on earth would want to be in our shed, with the rusty lawnmower and the lifetime’s supply of grubby plastic flowerpots? You can hardly see the floor. Oh shit, I do hope they don’t try anything in a bottle! There must be enough toxic substances in there to kill the population of a small town, all in tiny quantities, in a gazillion near-empty containers._

So, I got dressed and went downstairs. After I put a pot of coffee on to brew, I went outside. A sensible person might have called the police, or at least woken her six-foot-tall husband, but nobody ever accused me of being sensible. I was more curious than anxious, and a bit intrigued, I admit. How long had they been there? Stuff had been going missing for a few days, a week, maybe. My neighbour had even accused my kids of stealing her gardening coat and wellies from her back porch on the Wednesday before. ‘I don’t mind, Liz, I like a laugh myself, but I need them, you see.’ It took some time to convince her that my two weren’t interested in her smelly old wax-cotton jacket, even for a joke.

I walked the length of the garden as quietly as I could, sticking to the lawn to avoid making a noise on the gravel path. We didn’t lock the shed, there wasn’t anything worth stealing and frankly, if someone wanted to pinch it, better they could do so without pulling the door off its hinges. Our part of North London wasn’t a hot-bed of crime, but we got our share. I approached the door, suddenly feeling a little apprehensive.

What if it was a psychiatric patient in there? Or an escaped convict?

‘Oh pull yourself together, woman! They can’t be very big, there isn’t room!’

Slowly, I moved to my left and peered in through the window. That was a waste of time, because it was so filthy you couldn’t see a thing beyond the old faded carrier-bag up against it. So I grasped the nettle, or the door handle, anyway, and opened it.

At first I couldn’t see anything. The sun was shining brightly, but from behind the shed, so the interior was entirely in shadow. Then gradually, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I began to make out a shape in the corner, huddled up against the bags of compost. It was a small man, no idea of his age, wearing Muriel’s wax-cotton coat and wellies and my husband’s missing trousers. He had a high forehead, dark hair and a goatee beard. He was absolutely filthy. And he was looking at me with such terror that my heart went out to him. I know I can look a bit rough on a Saturday morning, after Friday night and all, but I don’t think I usually cause that reaction, even in small children.

‘It’s OK, I won’t hurt you. I just want to help.’ I was holding my hands out, palms down, and I spoke as softly as I could, but he still tried to climb up the compost bags to get away from me. I stopped moving and crouched down opposite him. He was still eying me as if I were a wild animal about to attack. Then I noticed the tears. They were coursing down his cheeks. He really was terrified. By the look of him, my presence wasn’t the first thing that had frightened him recently, so I decided that I should back off. There was no air in the small space: the smells of garden chemicals and dirt were blending with the unmistakable odour of unwashed human. ‘I’m going to get you something to eat and drink. Stay here.’ I smiled encouragingly at him, and he seemed to calm a little. I hoped he understood, and wouldn’t just make a run for it when I left.

I ran up the path to the house and grabbed fruit, a bottle of water and the remaining mini-rolls I was saving for Monday’s packed lunches. Not a feast, but it might convince him of my good intentions. I hurried back towards the shed and saw him peering out at me from the side of the doorway. His eyes alighted on my offering and a shy smile skirted his mouth. He must have been starving. I wondered how long he had been surviving on the nuts and bread Jenny and Daniel put out for the birds.

He took the apple eagerly, but was clearly puzzled by the banana. I handed it to him and he sniffed it uncertainly. The water bottle seemed to frighten him, and as for the mini-rolls… I opened the packets and when he smelt the chocolate his eyes bulged. I took a bite, to show him, and when the cake touched his mouth, well I have never seen anything like the expression of wonder and lust that appeared on his face. He ate all three greedily, so I showed him how to peel the banana. This was obviously another first for him, but he stuffed it into his mouth like a starving monkey.  I opened the bottle and when he realised it was a drink, he guzzled it. Must have been thirsty too. What had he been drinking?

He cleared his throat and spoke, the first noise he had made since I opened the shed door.

‘I thank you, mistress for your kindness. I pray you; tell me, what is this place?’

Now I don’t know if it was the course, but I just took this in my stride. I didn’t even stop to think he might be taking the piss. Later, when I thought back I was amazed how easily I accepted a bloke, living in my shed, speaking in Jacobean English. Especially when I was already reaching stratospheric levels of stress… perhaps that was why. My life was already so surreal, wrestling with spreadsheets all day and reading Shakespeare all evening, trying to fit family life into the gaps between, maybe this wasn’t such a stretch.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz has a wonderful revelation.

I looked at the man sitting on a half-empty bag of B&Q compost. What a strange question. ‘What is this place?’ he had asked me. Of all the _possible_ questions...

 I didn’t really know what he meant, so I said ‘Winchmore Hill’, which was the first thing that came into my head. He looked really puzzled at this. Then it occurred to me that he might mean this building, rather than the part of London, so I said ‘Well, my name is Liz Peters, and this is my garden shed. That’s my house, over there.’

‘I understand, mistress,’ he answered, not appearing to understand anything. At this point, practical me, the mother, stepped in and decided that he needed a bath (which he did. He _stank_ ).

‘How about you come indoors and get cleaned up a little, and have something hot to drink?’

He scrambled to his feet and nodded eagerly. It was cold and damp in there, after all. I beckoned to him and he followed me up the garden to the kitchen door.

‘What is _your_ name?’

He paused on the step. He seemed to be trying to remember, poor chap.

‘I believe it to be Will, mistress. But so many strange things have occurred lately, I am no longer certain.’

I opened the kitchen door and he stepped in and froze. He looked around anxiously and then walked cautiously towards the radio, which was tuned to the Today programme as normal. Evan Davies was talking about something and Will seemed alarmed by it. Then the coffee maker made its usual whooshing, gurgling noise and he jumped out of his skin. Poor thing, everything seemed to scare him. I was reminded of a nervous horse, especially as he kept twitching. I persuaded him to sit at the table and I put some bread in the toaster.

I should have guessed then that something wasn’t right, because even a vagrant wouldn’t have been quite so amazed by the contents of my very average kitchen, whereas Will’s eyes were on stalks. He gobbled up the buttered toast I gave him, and loved the hot coffee, although he added about 6 teaspoons of sugar to it. Nobody else was awake yet, so after he had finished eating I showed him into the bathroom and gave him a towel. He stood looking at the bath, that same bemused expression on his face. So I turned on the taps. Once again: amazement. My plumbing had never been so fascinating before. While the bath was filling I found him some clean clothes: some of Dave’s underwear, a pair of my old jeans (he was drowned by Dave’s trousers), and a t-shirt and jumper. He was profuse in his gratitude, and when I turned off the taps he began to undress in front of me.

‘Woah, woah! Hold on there champ! I’ll leave you to it. Just pull the plug when you have finished and leave your dirty clothes on the floor.’

I went downstairs and into the alcove of the dining room which functioned as my study. Next to it was our only spare bed, the fold-out chair thingy we had bought years before and used once. I decided he would have to sleep there. Not for a moment did it cross my mind to contact the authorities about him, or ask a charity for help. I just felt that I was responsible for him and I acted accordingly. Which of course, was correct, and the right thing to do. But I couldn’t have justified it to anybody, not at that stage anyway.

He emerged from the bathroom after about 45 minutes. There had been some splashing, but when I looked over his shoulder the floor seemed mostly dry. Not that it would have been unusual in a house with two kids, a wet bathroom floor I mean. I guided him back downstairs and into the dining room.

‘I’m afraid this is our only spare bed, but I think it will suit you. We will pull it out for you later.’

He gazed at the chair, looking puzzled, as usual. Then he looked at my desk, and his eyes alighted on the big red book. 

‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare’ _,_ ’ he said slowly, picking it up and peering at the cover. A strange sensation went through my chest, as if something or someone had grabbed my heart and was squeezing gently. He looked closely at the picture on the cover. And then he looked at me and he smiled.

That was when I realised.  

Somehow, goodness knows how, I had William-fucking-Shakespeare, standing in mydining room, holding my worn-out old copy of his complete works. I felt a tingle go down my spine. A bloody great tingle.

Then he picked up the white A4 assignment booklet which was open on the top of my papers, and he began to read the speech which was part of the TMA question. I had highlighted it.

‘ _Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue; but if you mouth it, as so many of your players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines_ …’ He chuckled softly. ‘I always liked this; I used to quote it to my actors from time to time.’

It was the first time he had looked comfortable since I saw him in the shed. This really was Shakespeare. I had got my wish, and I didn’t even have to ask him, he was giving me the answer I needed! I had an idea.

‘I can show you how they do it nowadays,’ I said, and he followed me into the sitting room next door. His eyes bulged when he saw the large flat-screen TV, but that was nothing to his reaction when I switched it on. The screen lit up and BBC Breakfast appeared. Will gasped and backed away rapidly, falling onto the sofa. His eyes were like saucers, his mouth hanging open, his hands clutching at the cushions. The sound was off, so I slowly turned it up, which only seemed to alarm him even more. He pointed at the TV, his lips moving but no noise coming out. I doubt anyone had ever found Charlie Stayt quite so scary before. And then the door opened suddenly and Jenny bounced in. Will screamed. Jenny screamed.

A few minutes later, everyone had calmed down a little. Jenny was in the kitchen eating her breakfast; Daniel was in the sitting room staring at Will, who was staring at the TV. Dave was standing next to me in his dressing gown; we were in the hall.

‘So, are you going to tell me who the hell he is?’

I chewed the inside of my mouth for a moment. I wasn’t sure how to put it without sounding nuts. Not that Dave would have been all that surprised: he loves me for my lunacy. I decided to go for it.

‘I know this is going to sound bonkers, but I think he’s William Shakespeare.’

Dave spat the mouthful of coffee he had just sipped all over me. Charming.

‘What the fu…?’ He peered round the door at Will. ‘Well, now you mention it… But how? What? This isn’t an episode of Doctor Who!’

‘Well, I did ask for his help last week and you wait till you hear him speak, he talks funny and Jacobean and everything scares him, and I…’ I struggled to express the certainty I sensed, ‘…I just know it’s him.’

There was a squeak of alarm from the sofa and I saw that Daniel had changed the channel to a cartoon, brightly-coloured and raucous. But after a few seconds, Will’s face changed. A look of delight spread across it and he began to laugh.

‘This… picture machine, how does it work?’ he asked Daniel.

‘No idea,’ Dan replied, shrugging his shoulders cheerfully as only an eleven-year-old can. ‘Couldn’t live without it though.’

I decided it would be safe to show him some of his work on screen. Later, anyway.

So after everyone else got on with their Saturdays, Dave off to football practice, Daniel to his mate’s and Jenny to dance club, Will and I sat down in front of the first DVD of The Hollow Crown,  Richard II.I had tried to explain to him thatplays are still put on in theatres, showed him my collection of ticket stubs and programmes, told him they have even rebuilt his old place by the Thames, but that there are some fabulous film and TV (picture machine) versions of his works, which mean that millions of people all over the world love him. He nodded, apparently understanding, and asked the odd question in his quaint way. I resolved to get on Amazon and place an order ASAP, because my collection only extended to the Branagh Much Adoand these four histories, but oh my, what an affect they had on him.

He still jumped when the screen lit up, and again when the sound came on (I was afraid of freaking him out any more, so I didn’t put the home cinema system on), but as soon as the actors began speaking he was entranced. He asked me where the locations were (not in those words, of course) and I said I’d have to check for him. Occasionally he mouthed the dialogue, and a few times he looked puzzled, presumably where changes in order or cuts had been made; I don’t know the play well enough to say. When the closing titles came up, I turned and looked at a very happy man. I thought his face would split in two he was grinning so broadly.

‘More?’

‘There is more, Mistress?’

Nodding, I got up and changed the disc to Henry IV Pt 1 _._ I admit to a few nerves at this point. What would he think of Hiddles? I would have been mortified if he hadn’t liked him as Hal, but what an idiot, of course he adored him. Before the end I had to go fetch Jenny from dancing, and when I returned Will hadn’t moved an inch. Tears were running down his cheeks.  The TV screen was showing the DVD menu. The play had finished.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. He looked at me, sniffing.

‘Falstaff. That actor is a giant, a genius, and I wish I had written a happier fate for him.’

Well, chapeau Simon Russell Beale! Made Shakespeare cry at his own bloody play!


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz and Will go to the theatre together

I think I had decided by about 3 o’clock that afternoon.  I was still sitting next to Will, but I wasn’t really paying attention to Henry IV Pt2 _,_ just the occasional look at you-know-who. I was writing my essay on an A4 pad. It was flowing out of me, and I had high hopes. I was finishing a paragraph about modern, spare productions when it came to me.

I had to take Will to the Donmar. I simply HAD TO.

Which meant I had to tell Jude she wasn’t coming. Which meant I had to tell her why…

But there was NO WAY I couldn’t take him. He loved Tom as Hal/Henry. What would he think, seeing him live, and in any case, I had to take him to a theatrical performance, and I already possessed the tickets! I had a vision of William Shakespeare, in the front row, standing and cheering at the end of the play… and the cast wouldn’t even know.  I felt the excitement build up in me; I wanted to giggle. Steady girl! Jude was coming over the next morning anyway, so I resolved to break the news and introduce her to Will then.

She took it amazingly well. Then she told me that she had been invited to go with someone else who had got tickets through that scheme where you ring up or go online on a Monday…so she wouldn’t miss out. Thank goodness for that. But she was a little less sanguine when I started to tell her about Will.

You see Jude is a nurse, a senior sister at a busy psychiatric unit. She is good at her job, very professional, so when I told her about the man I found living in my shed she assumed he had mental health problems. When I tried to explain, she obviously thought that I had mental health problems instead. So the only thing for it was to show her. And what is really fascinating about it is, when I did, even the arch-sceptic accepted it as well. Which made me even more certain that he was who I thought he was. Somehow, everyone who actually met him seemed to know that he was Shakespeare, in the flesh, in my house in N21.

Yes, I know, but they did. Still have no bleeding idea how he got here, but there you are.

We settled into a way of life with our strange visitor. He loved to watch the TV, so he spent most days doing that. I showed him how to operate it, and the kettle, and taps and toilets and all the other accoutrements of 21stcentury life he needed. We steered clear of computers and phones; where would you start? I would go off to work first thing, and when I got back he would be there on the sofa, watching Pointless with a cat on his lap. He had no idea what 98% of the programmes were about, but it all seem to interest him. The kids loved him, and he always seemed to have time for them, reading stories or just telling them. Jenny insisted on him putting her to bed and telling one every night, and it seemed to please him. I suppose 7-year-old girls are much the same now as in the 17thcentury. I found him a wardrobe from the local charity shops. He was particularly pleased with the fastenings on things and the underwear, which delighted him.

After a couple of weeks, when he was sitting next to me reading on his ‘bed’ while I worked, I asked him if he knew how he had got here.

‘I have no notion, Mistress Beth,’ he said (he had started calling me that, and I rather liked it). ‘I recall going to my bed as normal and when I awoke, I was on the grass out there.’

So, no answers, and no way of sending him back, even if I wanted to.

As the night of the play got nearer I began to worry about getting him to the theatre. He hadn’t left the house and garden as yet, and I couldn’t imagine getting him on a bus and/or the Tube. One night in bed I had a thought. ‘We should take him out in the car. Otherwise when we go into Town he’ll have a meltdown.’ Dave turned over and looked at me. ‘Good idea. He hasn’t actually been anywhere yet, has he?’

So we agreed to take him to the country on the next Sunday, and then drive through some busier parts of London, just to acclimatise him a little. This worked, once we had calmed him down after we first set off. He had difficulty adjusting to a carriage without horses, I suppose. Crowds didn’t bother him, so Dave and I agreed that he would drive us into Town on the night of the show, and we would walk to the theatre, no problem…

Well, the day of Coriolanusfinally dawned. I was incandescent with excitement. I would have been anyway, but to be going with Will, to be there with… Well, you know.  I hadn’t slept much, as you can imagine. I had to go to work, but my manager had allowed me to take some lieu time and leave early, because the performance started at 7.30. I think Will was as nervous as me, because he didn’t speak much during the journey, and when Dave dropped us at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street he was shaking a little. I took his hand and we headed for Covent Garden.

As before, he was unfazed by the crowds, although he was distracted by people dressed oddly, or in very short skirts, which is understandable. The lights everywhere seemed to scare him a little too. We got to the theatre in plenty of time and took our seats. I explained that this wasn’t a purpose-built auditorium, but he seemed to like it. However, he became more and more anxious as the seats filled up. People were staring at him. Like I said, everyone who had actually met him seemed to know, so did these people sense it as well? I reached for his hand again, and kept hold of it throughout the play. Suddenly the bells were ringing, and I felt the butterflies get a thousand times worse.

Now I’m sure that some of you guys reading this saw Coriolanus, either live or at the cinema, so you know exactly how fabulous it was. The sheer physicality of Tom’s performance… wow! Naturally, Will loved it from the first moment. He gasped at the lighting, the sound, the music, he lovedthe fighting and all that blood. And as time went on, I saw some of the actors looking in our direction. At first I was afraid it was because Will was fidgeting or something, but no, he was behaving impeccably. It had to be because they sensed it.  Sensed him, his presence. And when Coriolanus returned to Rome and began to address the Senate, I saw Tom catch sight of Will and there was just a micro-second of a pause. Just a tiny one, but…

When the lights went up for the interval, one of the crew who had appeared onstage to brush the blood and water away came over and said to us ‘Mr Hiddleston would like you to come back after the performance. May I take your name?’ ‘Peters.’ I said quickly, before Will had a chance to make things really weird.

  1. M. G.



I’d be lying if I hadn’t half-expected this to happen, given the affect Will’s presence has on people, especially those tuned into his work, but even so…I WAS GOING TO MEET TOM HIDDLESTON!

 The second half was the most profound experience I have ever had in a theatre, and not just because I was there with him. It was gut-wrenching, I cried like a baby, and so did Will. Then it was over, and as the cast took their bows I saw them all steal a glance at him; he was applauding like his life depended on it.

As the audience began to file out, I noticed the stage-hand who had spoken to us beckoning from the corner. ‘Here we go,’ I thought, and took Will by the hand.  We were led down a series of narrow corridors and staircases to a small room.

‘Please wait here. Tom will call you when he’s ready.’

Will looked excited; I felt slightly faint. I hadn’t considered what I would say. Was I going to introduce him straight up? I mean, I didn’t want to sound like a loon, but then again, how else could you explain our being here, if Tom and the others hadn’t felt it, hadn’t known somehow?

After about ten minutes, there was a discreet knock on the door and it opened. Tom Hiddleston’s gorgeous face peered cautiously round it, and he coughed.

‘Would you like to come over?’

Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me in the other direction. We crossed the corridor into his small dressing room.

‘Ms Peters..?’

‘Liz, please,’ I responded, trying not to squeak. I was incredibly nervous. For Will and Tom, I realised. ‘And this is my friend… Will.’ Tom looked at him, a slight frown furrowing that beautiful brow. We shook hands, and he gestured to us to take a seat, but Will just stood looking at him, smiling. Then he took Tom’s hand again. Then he made the longest speech I had heard from him since he turned up in my shed.

‘My dearest boy, that was the most wondrous, thrilling, heart-stopping…You were Caius Martius, how I wanted him, how I dreamed him, how he never was before. Just as you were Hal… You becomethe man, and…’ He paused, searching for the right words, it seemed, ‘…and it becomes you. I don’t begin to understand how I am here, in this place and time, but I believe now that providence decreed it should happen so that I could be here tonight, to see this performance.’

Tom eyes were fixed on Will. He did not say anything, but he was squeezing Will’s hand tightly and the tears falling down his cheeks spoke volumes. I became aware that there was someone in the doorway, and when I looked I saw Mark Gatiss, and behind him, others. Tom looked over and saw them. He nodded, and gradually, taking turns, the whole cast processed through the room and greeted Will. He called each of them by their character’s name; he knew every one without hesitation. He kissed the women’s hands; he embraced the leading actors warmly. Very few words were exchanged, it didn’t seem necessary.

Tom had stepped aside and sat down in the chair next to me.

‘How..?’ he asked me.

‘No bloody idea,’ I answered. ’I just wished one night that I could ask him for help with my OU Shakespeare course and apparently he appeared in my garden. I don’t think I’m a witch. I don’t even believe in god…’

Then something happened which I can only describe as the cherry on the icing of the most amazing cake that the previous few weeks of my life had been. Tom put his arm around me and hugged me to him, kissing me on the cheek. Someone seemed to have stolen all the oxygen in the room. I blushed from my toes to my scalp.

‘Thank you Liz,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘A thousand thank yous.’

I think Will was right about why he came, because less than a week later he was gone, as suddenly as he had come. I came down one morning and his pyjamas were in his bed, empty. I admit I had a bit of a cry. We all miss him, Jenny especially; none of us are as good at bedtime stories as the Bard. We will never be the same, and I think that goes for Tom Hiddleston as much as my family.  I still don’t believe in magic, even after this, but I do believe in the magic of Shakespeare, more than ever.

Oh, and in case you were wondering about the assignment, I got my best-ever score (96/100), and the only critical comment was to doubt my degree of certainty…


End file.
